Master of Chains (32 page)

In the first few moments, it felt as if the Crimson Awl would fold. The elite guards had the rebels surrounded. The half-giants worked like clockwork golems, tirelessly chopping down those who ventured close enough to be reached by their blades. Archers shot into the group with deadly accuracy. And Lord Purdun filled the courtyard with crackling orange flames.

But every time it appeared as though one of the Awl had taken a mortal wound, he seemed to shrug it off, continuing to come on despite taking massive damage. The rush of adrenaline and the furious battle around him was enough to drive Liam to action despite his reservations. He stepped up and crossed blades with the first of the Crimson Awl.

Bashing aside the man’s sword, he came up and across, catching his opponent across the shoulder and slicing a deep wound. Returning to his guard, Liam looked up into the face of his opponent—Kharl.

The young man whose life Liam had saved the day they had attacked Lord Purdun’s carriage now stood across from him, hatred in his eyes. The look on his face chilled Liam to the bone. But there was something else there too. His flesh was pale and sickly, almost transparent, and the veins under his skin were plainly visible. They stuck out in stark contrast, a dark blue-purple against the clear white of the rest of his face.

Kharl didn’t even bother to bring his sword up; he just reached out and punched Liam with his closed fist. Liam was knocked back a step. The young man who had nearly wet himself when they had ambushed the carriage had somehow gotten much, much stronger.

As Liam staggered back to his footing, Kharl opened his mouth, hissing and exposing a pair of long, thin fangs.

“Vampires,” whispered Liam. Somehow speaking the word made the situation they faced that much more palpable.

The Crimson Awl had been taken over by vampires. Lord Purdun had been right. Shyressa had been manipulating them all along. Had Liam not gotten out when he did, he too would be among the walking dead.

Liam scanned the crowd and the swirling melee. He recognized the faces of everyone in the Crimson Awl. He had fought beside them. He had been to their homes for stew. But what he saw before him—the beasts that had burst into Zerith Hold—these were not his onetime friends. These creatures were no longer even human.

Kharl leaped, landing on Liam’s chest and knocking him off his feet. The two men tumbled to the ground, rolling around on the flagstones. When they finally came to a stop, Liam found himself pinned down, looking up into Kharl’s gaping mouth.

Liam struggled to get free, but the vampire spawn held him down. He had the strength of an elephant.

“I’ve come to pry your sword from your cold dead hand,” hissed Kharl, and he lunged for Liam’s neck.

Liam flinched, and in the next moment, his face was splashed with a thick liquid. Blinking it out of his eyes, Liam watched Kharl’s head roll off his shoulders and fall to the bricks.

“Get up,” said Knoblauch, kicking the headless body off Liam. “The baron needs our help.”

The smaller doors guarding the back entrance to Zerith Hold swung opened and a unit of elite guardsmen rode hard into the night.

Giselle stood right beside the open doors, her hand on Curtis’s shoulder. Jase’s hand was on her shoulder, and everyone else in the Broken Spear followed suit, forming a human chain. They did this to stay together. Thanks to Curtis, every last one of them was now invisible.

“Wait for it,” whispered Giselle.

The last of the riders galloped off into the darkness, and the doors began to close again. The leader of the Broken Spear let go of Curtis’s shoulder.

“Yie, yie, yie, yie!” she shouted, and she bolted through the open door, bringing her scimitar down on the first standing guard she encountered.

The rest of the Broken Spear followed her lead, flooding through the gate. The walls inside Zerith Hold echoed with the war cry of the Broken Spear.

Giselle’s sword connected with the unsuspecting guard, and the blow severed the soft flesh of his exposed neck. The man dropped to the ground, dead before his head hit the flagstones, and the invisible Broken Spear warriors reappeared.

“Alarm! Alarm!” shouted someone in a guard tower. The tolling of a bell came shortly after, but it was too late. The Broken Spear was inside, and they spread out like a deadly cloud of poisonous gas.

Giselle dispatched two more guards in quick succession, then she spun to see if the riders were going to circle back and come to the aid of their comrades. They had taken off in a hurry, but the bell likely got their attention.

When she turned around, there wasn’t a single rider to be seen. Returning her attention to the fight, Giselle took on two more guardsmen.

Lord Purdun gathered the energy to cast another spell. He’d sent enough electricity through the men he faced to kill them ten times over. They would fall, but they would not die. His half-giant bodyguards had delivered some blows that would have felled an ox. But somehow the Crimson Awl got back up and fought on.

Here in the Hold, he and his men easily outnumbered the invaders, maybe two to one. Regardless, they made no progress. In fact, they were losing ground, and with it, the hope that they would hold the courtyard. Soon he was going to have to make the decision. He was going to have to cut his losses and pull back inside the keep.

Rapier in one hand, Purdun hurled four swirling blue-white spheres at an oncoming invader with the other.

“Will they never stop?”

“No, my lord, they will not,” hissed a voice.

The Baron of Ahlarkham turned to see a decrepit old man. His skin was brown and wrinkled. His eyes oozed with purplish liquid that looked as if it might drip down his face at any moment if it weren’t so thick. And he wore the tattered old robes of a courtly mage.

A chill like the dying breath of a white dragon ran up Purdun’s spine. “Menrick.”

The old man placed his hands together and bowed. “At your service,” he said.

“But …” Purdun stood in wonder. “I watched you die.”

Menrick nodded. “Yes, you did,” said the mage. “And I have come to you in unlife to return the favor.” The old man lifted his staff and pointed it at Purdun, sending a blast of icy crystals smashing into the younger man’s stomach.

The wind was knocked from the baron’s lungs, and he gasped against the pain and lack of air.

“Does it hurt?” asked Menrick. “Dying, I mean. It’s been so long since it happened to me, I don’t quite remember.” The undead mage sent another blast at Purdun.

This one struck him in the face, slicing his cheek and tearing a chunk from his ear.

Purdun put his hand to the side of his face. It was numb from the magical cold, but he could tell it was mangled.

“Menrick, this is madness,” protested the baron. “There was nothing I could do.”

The wrinkled pile of bones stepped closer. “You could have heeded my warnings. You could have walked away from the tomb.” He lifted the staff for another blast. “If you had, I would still be alive.”

Purdun cowered, casting a quick spell he had memorized for just such an emergency. A shimmering ball of opaque plasma surrounded his entire body, and the blast from Menrick’s staff splashed harmlessly against its surface.

“I see you have learned much,” said Menrick, circling around the glowing globe. “That old fool in his underwater tower taught you well.”

Purdun nodded, looking out of his protective shell. “You should know,” he said.

“Yes,” purred the wizard vampire. “I imagine his teachings didn’t change much from my time to yours.” Menrick ran his finger along the edge of the magical sphere, the melee around them continuing to swirl and rage in the courtyard.

“You know, though,” continued the old mage. “I suppose I should thank you.”

Purdun didn’t know what to make of this, so he kept quiet.

“There are a few advantages to being a vampire,” he said, stopping in front of Purdun and glaring in at him from outside the sphere. “For instance. Magic is no longer my only weapon.”

Menrick reached through the swirling plasma and grabbed Purdun by the throat. Taking a step back, he dragged the baron out of the protective bubble and bared his teeth.

“Now I will be the master.” Menrick lifted Purdun toward his open mouth.

The baron felt his body shake. Menrick’s grip on Purdun’s tunic tightened and both men were lifted from the ground. The lord found himself hanging over the flagstones, the silk of his shirt gripped tightly in Menrick’s clawed hands—the old vampire mage held in the air by two of Purdun’s half-giant bodyguards.

Purdun put his boot on Menrick’s chest and kicked off. The fabric of his tunic gave way, and the baron dropped to the ground, his chest bare.

Menrick thrashed against the bodyguards, flailing his limbs with preternatural speed. The old man hissed and clawed at the two silent half-giants, but neither of them budged an inch.

Scrambling to his feet, Purdun took a step back and looked into the eyes of his onetime mentor and friend, the vampire who had just tried to kill him.

“I am sorry, Menrick,” he said. “I was sad to see you die the first time, but I will be doubly so the second.”

Lord Purdun’s saber flashed in the flickering light. It slid quickly through the withered flesh and brittle bone that had been Menrick’s neck, and the old mage’s head toppled from his body. The arms twitched for a moment, then the corpse of Purdun’s old servant went limp.

“Put that somewhere safe,” Purdun said to his two bodyguards. “We’ll need to dispose of it properly when all of this is over.”

Ryder looked down on the raging fight in the courtyard below. He couldn’t have asked for anything better. To come out of the dungeon to find the Crimson Awl waiting at the front gate was all the justice he would ever need. Finally Zerith Hold would fall.

His brother and his wife may have betrayed him, but he would regain his family—he would return to the Awl and be embraced by them as a savior.

Looking over the familiar faces, he wondered who had been the driving force while he was gone. Who had taken over the role he had hoped Liam would fill?

The rest of the Awl finished making their way through the partially opened gate and portcullis. The last group to enter didn’t seem all that interested in getting inside and walked casually into the Hold.

That’s when he spotted the person he’d been looking for.

“Montauk.” The name rolled off Ryder’s lips with a certain respect and admiration. Ryder had never thought much of Montauk. He had always been a selfish, petty man. But Ryder was willing to overlook his previous opinion. He had been wrong in his characterization, and he would admit that to Montauk when they met again.

In the meantime, however, there was the little matter of dealing with his brother.

Placing a hand on the ledge, Ryder leaped over the low wall and into the courtyard below, his chains clanking as he landed. At the back of the melee, standing valiantly beside his baron, Liam fought against the men who had at one time been his friends and neighbors.

They were allies once. Liam had made them into enemies.

Ryder crossed the courtyard toward his brother. “Liam of Duhlnarim,” he said as he approached. “I call you out.” He grabbed one of the chains dangling from his shoulder and set it in motion.

Liam finished off the opponent he was fighting and looked back at his brother.

Ryder didn’t wait for him to acknowledge the challenge. Swinging his chain, he let it fly at Liam’s head. His brother stepped back, dodging the links with a quick weave.

Ryder stepped forward, pressing his advantage and coming in closer to Liam. This time though, he swung a chain with each hand. Again his brother stepped back, dodging out of the way.

“Ryder, what are you doing?’

“I’m killing you.”

Liam pointed to the fight raging beside them. “Don’t you see? The people of the Awl aren’t what they seem.”

Ryder swung his chain again. This time Liam had to bring his sword up to block it from slamming into his face.

“Propaganda,” Ryder shouted, striking out again.

Liam bashed aside another attack. “I don’t want to fight you. Just look, will you? They’re vampires!”

“All I need to know is that you stole Samira!” Ryder went low, catching Liam by the foot and sending him sprawling.

Liam clattered to the ground and scrambled back to his feet. “I thought you were dead,” screamed the younger of the two brothers. “I watched you fall in battle. I didn’t think you were coming back.”

“Well, here I am.” Ryder shook his chains. “And I’m going to take back that which belongs to me.” Again he attacked Liam.

This time Liam fought back, smashing aside the chain and countering.

“That’s more like it,” said Ryder through gritted teeth. “Let’s see what she’s worth to you.”

Liam’s eyes narrowed. “She’s worth dying for.” He lunged, feinting to the right then changing back to the left—a move Ryder had taught him many years ago.

The blade spanked off of the links of Ryder’s armor.

“Nice form,” said Ryder. “But you’ll have to do better than that if you intend to stop me from killing you.”

Liam lunged again. This time, Ryder slapped the blade away harmlessly with a pair of chains and followed through with another that slammed into Liam’s arm.

Liam winced from the blow and took a step back, rolling his shoulder.

“Hurts, don’t it?”

Liam ignored him. “I never meant for any of this to happen,” he said. “Can’t you believe me?”

Ryder shook his head. “No. I can’t.” He stepped up to take another swing at his brother.

A dark shadow flashed in front of Ryder, and in the next moment, he found himself struggling to stay on his feet. Some foul-smelling creature now clung to his shoulders and neck, its feet pressed against his back as if it were using him like a perch.

Ryder couldn’t see the beast, but he could see the one clinging to Liam. It looked so strange. About the size of a man, it stood atop Ryder’s younger brother at an odd angle, clutching his back. Somehow the creature, whatever it was, looked familiar, as if it were someone he knew.